The Royal Yacht Britannia used to be the Queen's vessel of choice when she steamed around the world to visit her Commonwealth subjects. These days the Yacht is docked at Leith, Edinburgh and is a thriving tourist attraction. Rhi and I went along last April, and ten months later I'm finally posting my photos.

The Yacht itself was interesting enough, letting us peek into the grand ballroom and Lizzie's boudoir (single bed only! Ol' Phillip was next door). But by far the highlight of the day was our fellow tourists, many of the elderly persuasion, and their struggles with those pesky audio tour handsets....

Click to launch photos!

There were two girls on the bus the other day, and thank goodness for that, for if it wasn't for people on buses I would never have anything to write about.

Anyway, they spoke in the italicised manner of young teens. They huddled over notebooks and scribbled intently with neon pink pens.

"We're doomed," declared the blonde in the puffy jacket with the fake fur collar. She slumped in her seat and sighed.

"48%, that's not that bad," the redhead in the puffy jacket with the fake fur collar said in soothing tones.

"48% is rubbish!"

I peered over to see what they were doing. Oh, sweet nostalgia. Do you remember when you were young and crushing and you'd write your name on a piece of paper, then write LOVES underneath, then the name of the boy underneath that? Like this:

... and then you'd count how many L’s are in your names, then how many O, V, E and S's, and keep adding up the numbers until you were left with a two-digit figure that spelled out your romantic destiny:

This poor girl was not happy with her compatibility with a young James. "He borrowed my pencil in Science yesterday so I thought things were going good."

My heart went out to her. At this stage of her life, all she had to go on was pure mathematics. She wasn't old enough to buy Cosmopolitan and let her self esteem be dictated by Are You Suckers Gonna Make It? multiple choice quizzes. I wanted to tap her on the shoulder and tell her that all was not lost. With some careful massaging of the data, it was entirely possible to turn the tide of their relationship.

Firstly, many schools of thought believe if you get a result under 50%, you have to double the number, the reason being 50% is the scientifically-proven minimum compatibility one can have with another human being. Or maybe it's just because a result less than 50% would be like ripping out your heart and inviting a herd of elephants to crap on it.

But if you don't feel comfortable with such blatant figure fudging, you can tinker with the words. Try adding your middle names and see if that beefs up the percentage. If you don't know his middle name, it is accepted practice to make one up.

Failing that, try a different word in the middle. "LOVES" is so traditional and stuffy. Try "adores", "admires", "worships", or:

If all that still fails produce a satisfactory result, well, whatever. Clearly the boy is so not good enough for you, girlfriend.

I caught the Orgasmatron to work today. The #12 route is served by only the oldest, noisiest, rattling heap of shit buses. The brakes wheeze and the windows shudder, the seats are cracked and creaky. But after awhile you discover the mechanical shortcomings of these vehicles can lead to a most exquisite side-effect. Especially when one sits on the lower deck during peak-hour, ideally on a Friday afternoon when the bus has to wait at traffic lights for long periods, rumble rumble rumbling. Soon enough you're praying for a three car pile-up so you'll be stuck at this spot for just a little... bit... longer!

But no time for cheap thrills today, this was Friday morning and I was running late. I sat upstairs and squinted into shop windows as the bus inched along. There's squillions of charity shops in Edinburgh, and they all seem to have a copy of Naomi Campbell's Swan on their bookstands.

I worry about the little shops. I look at the dinky hairdresser with photos of Duran Duran-esque hairdos on the wall and wonder just who's going get their hair cut there? And the empty fishmonger, what's going happen to all that unsold fish? Does anyone ever go into that tiny cafe? I've kept a concerned eye on a little gift shop for the past six months. I've never seen a single customer in that whole time. What will become of the gift shop guy? Even if we could get one person to buy one card per hour, how's he going to live off that?

Sometimes you see people preparing to open a new business. They're proud and optimistic as they watch a dude on a ladder paint the shop name above the window. I fret about how much money they've sunk into this, if they'll get any customers. It's depressing near my house -- first the ice cream place closed down, then the framing shop, the scooter shop and now the shoe shop that only opened six months ago. If the bagpipe shop goes next I will cry!

The #12 wobbled to a halt near a funeral parlour. Dozens of squealing school kids piled on. I watched a lady swatting a display of headstones with a feather duster. She looked around the shop and checked her watch, then she must have sighed heavily because her bangs drifted up and down. She came to the front of the shop and leaned against the door frame, lips pursed tightly.

Imagine having your livelihood dependent on someone elses deadlihood. She looked so anxious, twirling the duster in her hands, waiting for someone to kick the bucket. It wasn't exactly the biggest or fanciest funeral joint I'd seen, I hope she made enough to get by.

I considered getting up and shoving one of the kiddies down the stairs to boost her profits, but I was just getting comfy in my seat.